Because He Came Here With Me
by Affable as Ever
Summary: What happens if Katniss is more affected by the comment that Peeta has a crush on her than she lets on? What if she has been hiding feelings for him for years? And what if the night before the Games commenced Katniss stormed into his room in a rage?


A/N: Well, this is my first Hunger Games fic. It was more a way to vent my rage at the never-ending sexual Everlark tension. Set on the night before the Games, after the interviews with Caesar. It may be slightly AU, because I haven't got a grasp on Katniss quite yet… but bear with me and enjoy!

Title: Because He Came Here With Me  
Word Count: 8,060  
Rating: M (Sexual scenes)  
Setting: The Hunger Games (books)

* * *

After I apologize to Peeta, I flee to my room and strip off my dress to give to the red-headed Avox girl, whom I had now developed a comfortable acquaintanceship with. I set myself down in my room, the strange lush, carpeting seeming so much less inviting when compared to the floors at home. My hands as twisting and turning the fabric of my night-gown, a floor-length wrap around thing, made of dark blue silk that secures around my waist with a cord. It's for my to wear between fittings and at night over my underclothes, Effie's idea, obviously. My hands working furiously, twisting and turning the fabric because I am so filled with anxiety and rage that I know if I don't keep my hands occupied, I will start tearing my room apart.  
I was the girl who was on fire, but I had lost my flames. Peeta's ploy at making me look 'desirable' had left me breathless, confused and above all, desperate to know the truth. When the elevator had opened and I stepped out in my dress, glimmering and flaming like my anger had the moment I saw him. I had shoved Peeta, not out of anger, but out of frustration, out of the feeling that I was being played with. I was always one of irrational rages, and this night had been no exception.  
Not that he would know this of course, the real reason I had lashed out so horribly, not Peeta or Hamich. Or Caesar, and definitely not Effie, no one actually knew. How could they? I don't talk about myself, I don't love anyone, well except for Prim. But she is a part of me, she is the one person in the world I am sure I love with all my heart. Everyone else is almost obsolete in comparison to my love for Prim; my mother became a robot and I had treated her as such, our relationship never healed and Gale, he is my best friend, but I don't love him, though I have my suspicions that he may feel something more than platonic friendship for me, especially suggesting that we run away together on the day of the Reaping.

My thoughts, muddled as they already are, fall back upon Peeta. The day we had our first real encounter; me shivering in the cold as he tossed those bread pieces to me. All those years ago, his gift had saved my life and subsequently Prim's and my mothers life, it had never been forgotten. _He _had never been forgotten. That act, it was treasured, locked away deep in my heart and I fed off it for so long, using this one meager example of kindness to fuel me every time we came close to starvation and death. I knew I felt something for Peeta Mellark, the bakers boy, but I forced it away, buried it down and soon enough forgot about it. That was two years ago. I had no idea that it would surface again, not in my second last year of eligibility for the Reaping, not here in the Capitol and not here, on the twelfth floor of the building that kept the twenty-four Tributes for the Hunger Games.  
After a shower had erased the beauty I had been temporarily gifted by Cinna, I emerge from my bathroom, frustrated and alone. The dress whisked away into the embracing arms of Cinna and the rest of my prep crew, for safe-keeping obviously, the dress most likely being worth more than my whole house and possessions back in District 12.  
Tomorrow the Games begin, and I know I need sleep, a proper rest so I'm at my best to not die during the blood-bath at the Cornucopia but all I can do is pace my room, my mind filling with Peeta's taunting voice; "_because she came here with me."__  
_It is ridiculous, these few words filling me, they swirl around my brain. Hamich had dubbed us the '_star-crossed lovers of District 12'_ and I had openly scoffed at this. Disbelieving and haughty, seemingly angry at Peeta making me seem as though I was weak. I remember earlier this evening, remarking in my mind that he was lucky my shove hadn't driven him into the shards of the broken urn, his balance had thrown him back into the wall, the feet of his expensive shoes crunching on the fragments. My pacing slows to a stop and my mind dwells more on Peeta, a montage of moments flash before my eyes, memories I wasn't aware I had saved up of him, all the way up to his interview with Caesar. I find myself wondering what had prompted him to push up that sort of charade, I knew from the moment I saw the his interview playing live that it wasn't, it couldn't be, the truth. But why did he have to do it?  
It puzzles me, infuriates me and was driving me insane, my hands wringing at my bedcovers and I realize I still haven't dressed after my shower. But my door is locked and I am too frustrated to care right now.  
Peeta couldn't know of the crush that I had felt for him since he had given me the bread. I'd never told him, nor acted on it. We were kids back then, nothing more and since then I had barely paid him attention. That, of course, changed at the Reaping. Our forced companionship had brought those long-buried feelings to the surface. I had to make myself believe that he didn't know, he _couldn't _know, and even if he did, I would never believe that the boy with the bread could be so heartless to toy with me like that. Unless it was a ploy concocted to give him an advantage over me when the Games began.

My mind swirling, fuming, I wrap my night-gown around my form, I'm still partially damp from my shower, my hair creates a dark, wet patch on the silky blue fabric. My face is slightly flushed red from my frustration as I pull my door open. It's quiet and dark as I stalk silently down the hallway in the direction of Peeta's room, push his own door open and close it quietly. Instead of curled up in his own bed, which I note is eerily similar to mine, he is by the window, looking out over the city, the parades and dances performed in honour of us, of all the Tributes and in honour of the Games that will commence tomorrow. I can't help but snort in indignation at the idea of people celebrating the barbaric act of pitting mere children against each other to fight to a bloody end. It's all because of the Capitol, their not-so-subtle reminder that they can take anything they want from the twelve districts, even their youth. This noise alerts Peeta to my presence, he starts, but doesn't look over, "Katniss," he says, his own way of acknowledging my appearance in his room. I can't tell if he is being so indifferent because of my prior outburst, or because it's the way he is now.  
My courage and rage empty from me like water down the drain of our absurdly large showers. Peeta always seemed to be shier than me, weaker and somewhat more vulnerable, but now, as he stands at the window, coolly surveying the city below, I am the one who feels vulnerable. "Can't sleep?" he asks quietly, almost knowingly.  
"Not really," I admit, taking a few steps towards him, my fury erased and replaced my complacent curiosity. Though the feeling that I have been toyed with and made fun of still eats at my heart, but I force myself to dull my foolish anger in order to pull some answers out of him, "I can't turn my mind off."  
I see the semi-silhouette of Peeta nod in either agreement or understanding.  
"I wanted to say sorry again," I say quietly, my voice having lost all the previous bite, "for shoving you into that wall. It wasn't right, and I know that it wasn't your idea to say those things-"  
"It was my idea, actually," he breaks in, turning back around and motioning with his hand towards the table next to his bed, the automated lamp ignited and filled the room with soft light. Some of the things in the Capitol seem so pointless and frivolous to me, compared to the struggling and starvation the people who live in the Seam in District 12 have to deal with daily. In the light I now see that he is shirtless, his arms not surprisingly built from his years of working at the bakery; all the lifting of the flour at the public market and carrying the trays of bread to an from their large oven. His hands are delicate though, which I attribute to the work he does on decorating the cakes, though I had already in fact noticed his somewhat softer hands during our camouflage training. Not that I'd ever say that to him of course, I wasn't in the habit of paying compliments to anyone. The training we had been subjected to had defined him, sculpted him. Making him deadlier, but not lethal. For the first time I found myself considering him an actual contender in the Games, and I have to wonder if he sees it too. My brain wanders back to what he had initially said; "why did you do it?" I can't help but ask, my voice filling with scathing bite, "you made me look stupid, heartless and weak," I'd already argued this point, though I didn't exactly believe I looked weak, I had silently agreed with Hamich; Peeta _had _made me look desirable, but I didn't want to admit that point to the drunkard or to Peeta.  
"You know that wasn't the point, Katniss," he says, locking his blue eyes onto mine, "you know that it was meant to make you look desirable, not like the ditzy, silly spinning girl who twirled herself dizzy on the stage during your interview."  
My brow darkens, the frown creasing my face, "and you know that I was trying to seem like I was actually likeable!" I snarl, "not like you of course, Mr. Likable, Mr. Loverboy," my eyes roll without permission, "I couldn't hold a candle to you anymore! The only reason people remember me now is because of my training score and because of what you did to me!" I accuse pointing a finger at him for a second. "You'll get all the sponsors and sure, I'll get the sympathy but sympathy won't let me survive in the arena," I ball my hands into fists, my anger flaring back into an inferno, "because of you my chances have dropped, and you usedme to ensure that you would get sponsors and that _you'd _get the gifts from Hamich and the favouritism and the air time, so you could get back home and leave me for dead. _You _used _me_!"  
My words hang in the air, heavy and condemnatory, I glower at him and he stares stonily back, "and if you wanted to use me, why didn't you make something less abrasive up? Why did you have to play on emotions like that?" I demand furiously, and something registers on his face but I pay no attention to it, my face darkens with rage and frustration and confusion, embarrassment evident but I can't stop my rant, "why do you have to _pretend _to be in love with me? It could have been anything but that, _anything _else and I could have dealt with that, I could have adapted and pretended to, but not this, I can't deal with this. I can't pretend something that I actually feel! It doesn't- I can't-" and I'm silenced with a kiss.  
A _kiss. _

I make a surprised, angry, shamed sound against his lips before tearing my mouth off his, "don't humour me, Peeta," I force out, shoving him away like I had when we first arrived on the twelfth floor after the interviews a mere few hours ago. I'm hurt now, and feeling lost, wondering frantically what his angle is. I stare at him as his eyes, so blue, bare down upon me, some unrecognizable emotion in the wide orbs. I take it for a look of pity, "and don't you dare pity me!"  
My eyes are watering now, and I have no more words left, my fists balled so tightly that my knuckles are white and my lips feel like they are burning from where he kissed me. "Why are you making this worse?" I demand softly, disgusted by how my voice is shaking.  
"I'm not," he says, stepping forward towards me, closing the distance that I had put between us by the shove I administered, "I'm being honest. Can't I be honest?"  
I scoff at this, "no, you can't, because I don't want you to pretend honesty, I don't want you to pretend to be in love with me, I don't want you to _lie_ and try to act as though its real!"  
"I'm not lying," Peeta says in a soft by authoritative tone, and my hand reaches up to strike him across his near ridiculously handsome face. His hand catches me, around my wrist and stops me, drawing me in, and I nearly lose myself in the sheer intensity of his gaze. I forget that the Capitol could be monitoring us; I forget that I should hate him, that I _do_ hate him, that he made me look foolish and stupid and ditzy, I forget everything but the intensity of his glare.  
"Don't," the word is soft on my lips, quiet and it almost seems like I'm pleading with him, though I'm not sure what for. He's still got my wrist in his hand, because he knows I'm going to try and hit him again. And I do try; because I'm wounded and angry and I don't like that he's lying to me. Because he must be lying, "Peeta, please… don't."  
I hear him laughing quietly, and I know my bottom lip is quivering, the angry tears burning in the back of my eyes and I know he can see it too. How could he laugh at me now? Peeta isn't stupid, he knows why I am so distraught, and yet he is laughing?  
"Hamich said you'd be hard to convince," he murmurs as I bow my head, ashamed of my confused and conflicting emotions. I am Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire, not some wilted rose who breaks down under the power of emotions; I'm not the girl who _shows_ emotions. And here I am, slowly falling into him, overcome by the shame I feel for myself and the sentiments I should feel for Peeta as my adversary, and the ones I do feel for Peeta as the boy who save my family from starvation. I'm not sure if it's the combination of the exertion training, my still rattled nerves from the interviews with Caesar, homesickness, fear and apprehension for the day to come, but I'm frightened of him. Frightened of the way he makes my heart thump so quickly in my chest, the way he makes my body feel tingle and now, while he is staring at me, his delicate hands curled around my wrist, he's making my body feel hot all over. _Fight it, Katniss,_ I command myself, _don't let him win._ So I do fight, I try to strike him again, but his grip stops me, I try to pull away but he tugs me closer and I find myself trapped in him, physically and emotionally. His arm is holding around my waist, strong and firm. I know that if he wanted to he could probably shatter my rib-cage with one strike. I should be terrified of my physical safety, I should be fighting back harder, but I can't look away, "Peeta," his name is just a whisper on my lips before his mouth is on mine again and I'm just numb from feeling so much after years of being emotionless and nearly robotic in my day-to-day life. I know he can feel the wetness on my cheeks, the tears that I'm only noticing now, "too much- too many emotions, Peeta," I manage to choke out against his lips that I've noticed are suddenly so honeyed against mine.  
"Then kiss me back, Katniss," he whispers sweetly and I have but one moment to marvel at the changes of his personality and that of mine, before I'm giving in and my hand, that had tried to strike him so many times, is caressing his cheek and sliding up his jaw to find my way into his hair and I'm pressing myself closer to him. It's like a relief and a curse at the same time. It's a relief to feel that kissing him is so right, like we'd been waiting since we were kids to do this. But its also a curse to know that if this is us, if this is what we have evolved into, it means that in less than a month we'll be separated forever. One of us, or both of us, will be dead. _Maybe Hamich is right, _I can't help but think as his large but somehow tender hands slide both around my waist and cradles my body close against his, _maybe we are the 'star-crossed lovers of District 12.' _  
Now he is peppering my lips with soft kisses, soothing kisses, kissing my wet cheeks, kissing the tears away as he looks down at me, "Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire," he whispers with a small smile, but I look down.

I am no longer that girl, instead of making me tougher here; it's breaking me down. I'm humiliated because I already feel like I've let Prim down, and I haven't even entered the arena. The real fight hasn't even begun and I'm already losing. No one will sponsor the girl who breaks down at the touch of her enemy. I suppose this is what is left of me after bottling everything up and carrying the weight of my family on my shoulders for so many years. It's all tumbling out of me now, every emotion I've ever felt or wished I could feel is swallowing me and I feel like I'm going to explode right here and now. All that is keeping me grounded right now is Peeta, and though I feel like he wants to say more, I pull him back.  
We're not that different in stature, so I hardly need to lean up when I go to kiss him again, and he doesn't protest. I hold his face in my hands, tighter than necessary, half afraid that he's going to leave.  
"Katniss," he says breathlessly, a small smile on his lips as he pries my hands off his face, "you don't need to hold so tightly."  
I shake my head, he doesn't understand, he doesn't know what this means for me or for us, "I do." It's barely above a whisper, but he can hear me. Or read my emotions, or both. And it's scary; because this is the first time I've let anyone read me, in so long. I wouldn't even let Gale get this close to me, not physically or mentally and I had been friends with him for the better part of my life.  
"You don't, I'm not going anywhere." _Maybe he knows_, I can't help but think, _maybe he knows how much I need him right now. Maybe he knows that I just need him to – to just be there for me now.__  
_"Tomorrow could be the last day of our lives," I find myself thinking aloud, the bloodbath at the Cornucopia always killed the most Tributes at once in every Hunger Game on record. It was purposely staged so that we were forced to fight for crucial supplies, to run in and kill or be killed. It was mainly to ensure a good show for the Capitol, the betters, the sponsors and all of the Districts. No blood spills equals boredom, which in turn would equal the punishment of the Game Makers.  
Of course, for me there was the promise of a bow and quiver, tents, sleeping bags, food, water and all other manner of useful, life-saving things but also lingered the promise of death, it may not be my death, nor Peeta's, but death always surrounds the Cornucopia. Not that it really mattered, the supplies were almost always commandeered by the Career Tributes, not the ones like Peeta and I, the ones from the poor districts.  
"Tomorrow we could die."  
"I know, Katniss."  
"What would you do if you knew for certain that this was your last night?"  
He pauses, and his hands are still holding mine, thumb rubs against the top of my hand and I can feel gentle callouses in the skin, "I'd make it count."

We stand in silence, letting his words dangle in the air. It could have been seconds or minutes, but all I know is that I'm whispering, "kiss me," during the silence once, and he does. Without hesitation. Our lips slide together, molding together, the taste of District 12, of Upper Class and Lower Class mingling together.  
Soon I was pulling him, walking backwards and crashing down on his bed, he larger body nestled between my legs and his eyes staring down at me. I was losing myself in him, losing myself in his eyes. I notice now, in the flicker of the lamp-light, that the outer part of the iris is lighter while the colour closest to his pupil is dark blue, almost navy, with streaks of lighter blues twisting through the darkness. I was too far gone to remember that I should have been the strong, fierce Katniss that hunts fearlessly in the woods beyond the fence of District 12, but I wasn't, not now.  
Now I was the prey.  
But I don't care, his hand strokes the side of my face, his thumb brushes my bottom lip and I can see a smile on his mouth. Half of me wonders when he was going to come to his senses and kick me out, the other half just reveling in him as he leant down to press feather-light kisses to my lips.  
_Why does he seem so much older now than before?_ I couldn't help but think, _why did the boundaries, the differences between us blur away the moment our lips first connected?_ He was Town, I was Seam, I was the starving twelve-year old girl his mother swore at, we were enemies, and may even have to kill each other if it came down to it. And yet here we lay, and I was pulling at him trying to draw him closer, my fiery nails lightly drag up his back while his tongue traces my lips, his hands rest by my head as we find our way up to the pillows. They were as soft as mine, made of the same fabric, _but they smell like him_, I think to myself. I shock myself then by realizing that I had actually memorized the scent of Peeta Mellark, and shock myself even more as I admit internally that it was something I like. Something I could easily get used to.  
He smells of home, of warmth, he smells like freshly made bread and I wonder if the smell had soaked into his skin after all these years working in the Bakery.  
In contrast, his mouth tastes like sugar, his lips are sweet. He is sweet.  
"Katniss," he whispers against my skin, and I feel myself shudder at the feeling of his breath skimming across my flesh, and I know what he's going to say, "do you believe me?" _Do I believe what? That he has had crush on me 'forever'? That he wants me? That he's really in love with me? _I don't truly believe any of it, I can't comprehend the idea the bakers boy could have had a crush on the girl who rummaged in his garbage for scraps to eat.  
I shake my head, gazing at him with fire in my eyes again, "no."  
Peeta's kisses stop. I don't try to pull him down again, I just stare up at him, eyes dry this time, unblinking, unwavering. "I don't believe you, I know it was for the viewers, and because Hamich said it was a good idea. But you can't convince me."  
"And you don't _need_ to convince me," he murmurs back, I start slightly, unable to find words. I had just told him my feelings, more or less, but for some reason I didn't think he would notice or register my confession. I can see it in his eyes, he completely understands how I feel, and yet I still don't believe him.  
"But I need to convince you," he says quietly, urgently "I need to show you."  
_How? _My mind pleads wildly,_ how are you going to show me something that isn't true, Peeta?_ He must read my thoughts with those sinfully blue eyes, "tomorrow we could die," he echoes my words, "and more likely it's going to be me who goes first," I try to protest, but I'm not given the chance, "and if that's the case, I want- I need you to believe me." My breath catches in my throat a moment, "I want you to believe that I don't need to pretend to love you, because I already do," I scrunch my eyes shut and look away, I don't want to be drawn in by lies that will just give me false hope, "please, don't lie to me Peeta."  
I can see the disappointment in his eyes, but I can't decide if it's due to my unwillingness to believe or because his lie hasn't worked. I pretend it is the latter, it's easier that way, "I would never," he whispers, "let me show you."

The clock flashes at 12:18am, in less than a day, we could both be dead, in 12 hours even. In 8 hours, Effie will come to rouse me for the start of another _big, big, big day!_, Hamich will most likely come to pull Peeta from his slumber, and then soon after we'll be pitted against each other out in a landscape that could hold any number of dangers.  
"Try," I finally say, a slight bit of defiance in my voice because I know I'll never believe him, "but I won't trust a lie," _though I want to, I want to believe you feel like I do, but no amount of pleading, lying, repeating the phrase will ever make me believe. __  
_Peeta seems to take this as a personal challenge, he kisses me, tongue moving against mine, the unnatural sweetness of his mouth sends tendrils of bliss through me. I can't explain it though, the feeling he gives me, "don't believe a lie then, believe the truth." And then he is silent, his mouth preoccupied by sweeping the column of my neck with kisses, the honeysuckle lips sliding down the V-neckline of my nightgown, still fastened by the cord around my waist. It's a sensation I don't know, it's something I'm not familiar with, but am growing to love each passing second. I wonder what he plans to do, what he plans to prove to me, or how. But the thoughts are sucked from my brain when his tongue slides against my skin very briefly and there is a sound escaping my lips that almost reminds me of the Mockingjay's mating call. And there, right there is that feeling, low in my abdomen, something I used to feel in my early adolescence for Gale, but had long since passed. My skin feels hot all over and I'm pulling him up, trying to pull those sweet lips to mine again, there is this urgency in my grasp. His lips are soft, insistent on being gentle, but I'm nipping at them with my teeth, and then running my tongue along the tiny welts I'm creating. Something is overwhelming us and I can feel it. Some heat that I hadn't allowed to fill me in so long, I had been cold for years both internally and externally, this warmth was like an old friend; so, so welcome. I can feel his questing fingers splaying along my clothed ribcage as my hands rake through his hair. But then his weight is shifting off me, off to the side. In turn I roll immediately onto my side so I can face him and I'm already missing the warmth that his form had given me, my legs slip out of the nightgown, twining with his clothed legs, my foot rubs up and down the inside of his calf and he's just gazing at me as if I'm the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The bed was wide, wide enough for both of us to lay shoulder to shoulder, but we're facing each other, neither one of us willing to put that much distance between our bodies. I feel his hand sliding on the silky fabric of the nightgown, dipping with the curves of my waist and I'm tingling.  
"Kiss me," I say, like I had not that long ago, but this time before he can act, I lean in, my hands pressed flat upon his chest, my lips moving with his, slower than before, but with just as much intensity. I feel as though I am on fire, my body aching for something that seems so unattainable, Peeta's hands drift down the V-neck of where the robe fastened up, the simple touch of his hands sends shivers down my spine as my back arches into him. I groan as his hands, somewhat from my own prompting, push back the fabric causing the flimsy, thin gown falling open, revealing me in full nakedness. In my anger induced mania, I had stalked out into the open in nothing but a simply nightgown, Effie would have been disgusted in me. But Effie was the last thing on my mind because just then Peeta's hand is sweeping the curve of my breast, so tenderly that I felt as though I am going to explode, "let me show you I love you, Katniss," he whispers between breath-stealing kisses, I can only whimper in response. He is driving me insane, I want to push myself up into his touch as his fingers play across my nipples. His tenderness causes me to whine again, his name coming like a bubble from my between my lips; "Peeta…"  
I push myself up against him, shamelessly, I no longer care anymore, I just have this rampant desire to feel him, feel his skin, feel all of him. I was lying to myself when I pretended that I didn't know what he was doing, I knew. I wasn't stupid, I know what the girls my age in the Seam are doing at night when they sneak off from their parents houses.  
_I'd make it count, _and I know how he intends to do that, and I'm not afraid.  
Under normal circumstances, this would have been so wrong, all the risks we were taking, especially with my personal desire to never have children, but with death all but a certainty in the Hunger Games, there would be no repercussions and no one to judge us.

My nails are raking down his chest, leaving tiny white marks along his pale skin that turn pink and fade away within moments. With shaking hands I settle on the lacing of his very soft, luxurious Capitol style undershorts, the only thing he is wearing right now. His hands wander freely across my chest, coaxing fire in my veins and whimpering sounds out of my mouth as I slide my hands along the stretch of skin just above his waistband, feeling the coarse hair that trails down from his navel and further down. His chest is bare aside from this one trail of hair, and I suddenly want to know what it is like to feel his skin against mine. I pull him against me, letting out a whine as my already over sensitized nipples graze his chest, I vaguely register that he is whispering my name before his lips are sliding across mine again and I'm clutching him, slipping my tongue into his mouth. I can feel his hands caressing the side of my body and I'm moving against him, my hands still skating along the fastenings of his pants. I find myself filled with the need to touch more skin, to push off the pants and explore the other parts of him. My hand rubs across the front of the material, feeling the bulge there and noting how he moans at the friction. "Katniss," my name is a drawn out sound rolling off his tongue before his hands shove off the material that was still resting on my shoulders and I am completely naked before him. In usual circumstances, seeing as I had never been comfortable with nakedness, I would have shied away, hidden from his eyes and drawn the robe back around my body. But because I was so consumed by the need to have his hand touching me, to feel that fire coaxed to an inferno inside me, "you're beautiful," I hear him whisper and then his fingers tweak a nipple and with no further hesitation, my hand slips quickly to unfasten the front of his pants and he doesn't stop me. Within a few moments we are laying on his bed, my hands are on his chest but they are shaking. _What are you doing, Katniss? _I ask myself, because truly, I don't know. I open my mouth to repeat my question to Peeta when I feel his slightly calloused fingers slid down my side, sweeping along my upper thigh, I'm so aware of the wetness between my legs. It's something that I have felt before, in long nights when strange, hot dreams would plague my sleep. More often then not, these dreams involved Gale, but those girlish fantasies pale in comparison to the heat blazing in my body and the tingling lancing up and down my limbs at this moment with Peeta.

"Prove it to me," I find myself pleading in a voice that is not my own, it belongs to a wanton teenager, not the level-headed Girl on Fire. I am asking this of him though I know I'll never really believe it, "make me believe that lie," my heart pounds in my chest because we both know what I'm truly asking for. I'm not asking for him to convince me with words, compliments or some great heartfelt speech. I'm asking for him to take me. Tomorrow we could be dead, and tomorrow I could never have a chance to be with him or to release this wild, animalistic feeling that he had prodded to life within me. Out there in the arena we will never be able to have private moment, cameras will watch every emotion, hear every word, follow us, the _'star-crossed lovers' _like hawks. Here and now I know is the only time we are really alone. I see the recognition in his eyes, he knows what I'm asking. Or rather demanding, and I can't help but remark that maybe I am no longer the prey, I feel as though I am the predator. Emboldened by this realization, I slide my hand down his chest, my eyes level with his as I grab his length, its hard and warm in my hand as my fingers wrap around him. He's larger than I thought, and my body suddenly thrums with excitement as Peeta groans my name, his eyes flicker shut. I don't know if he is aware of the fact I have no idea what I am doing, but as I gently move my hand up his shaft once, then twice, I realize I must be doing something right because his eyes are on me once more. And the blue is wild now, some deep craving finally snapping and emerging from within him. It seems like an instant, but he is back on top of me, my legs parting immediately and he settles between them. My head rolls back with a soft whine as I feel his tip sliding against me, bumping against a particular bundle of nerves that sends a white-hot pleasure flooding through me. And I feel like I'm about to explode.  
"I wish you'd believe me," he whispers almost sadly as he presses a kiss to my pulse-point. "I wish you'd believe _in _me…" and with those words, in less than a moment I'm being filled, stretched to my limit. I thought this would hurt, but it doesn't, all I can do is let out a strangled moan and dig my nails into his back. I hear my name fall off his tongue as he is sheathed fully inside me. There is this co-existing relief and tension inside me; this is what I've craving, this feeling of being so connected with someone, with Peeta. It makes something swell inside me, until I feel as though I am going to burst. It crosses my mind to ask if he has done this before, but I realize I don't care.  
"Please, move," I hear myself beg, wriggling my hips underneath him, feeling myself shudder at the delicious friction that this minute movement of my hips create, "please Peeta, please move. _Make it count." _This is all it takes, and I feel him slide nearly all the way out of me, his arms easily bracing him slightly above my body, and then his hips slide forward, and all the sensations that fill me make me want to cry out his name over and over. His sugar lips are at my neck, sucking and biting with near ferocity, it should have hurt me but all I can feel is searing passion burning me from the inside out. I'm nearly shaking with relief as his begins to push into me again and again, my hips moving with his and I know I can't conceal the sounds that erupt from my lips, it's a babble of his name, my pleading for him to not stop and some sparse cursing. I know he will be left with scratch marks on his back and I with bite marks and hickies on my neck, but I am beyond caring as he flips us over suddenly and I am straddling him. My eyes nearly roll backwards as this new angle makes me cry out his name; "I- _Peeta!_"  
My hands fall onto his abdomen, and I feel deep inside me this carnal need to feel him moving inside me. I lift myself up, using my hands to lever myself up and down his length and I hear our moans synchronize and his hands are on my hips, helping my movements, moving me faster and I don't care because it feels oh, so good. I don't know if this is Peeta proving his 'love' for me, but if it is then I want him to love me forever. There's a feeling building up inside me, I feel like I am about to shatter, I'm moving so quick now, minute movements of my hips assisted by the near bruising grip of Peeta's hands on my waist creating a whirlwind of pleasure that I am sure I am about to be sucked into. His hands drag up to cup my breasts, rolling my already sensitized nipples between his talented fingers until my head is falling back and I'm whimpering out an unending string of obscenities. I roll my hips in a circle and Peeta's grip tightens on my breasts and I cry out his name. I know I should be ashamed that this pain makes the blood boil in my veins and sparks explode behind my eyes, but I am not. I don't care, all that is in my mind is him, and how wonderful he and everything feels to me right now. My hands are tiring though, my arms quivering because I can't hold myself up through the combination of pleasure and the erratic movement I have been driving at. But I'm so close, there is a pressure building low in my stomach, I know I am chasing something, _we're _chasing something together. Peeta's breath is ragged and every now and again my name drips from his lips in a nearly choked gasp.  
"Peeta- please," I begin, I'm whimpering now because I just want to feel him on top of me now, I want to feel his power over me again, "I can't- I- _please_-" I can no longer form a proper sentence, but he understands. He always understand.  
In a flourish of movement that I almost admire, I've been flipped again, my hair splaying out on the pillows, his hands beside my head and he's moving, we are moving together, but it's not enough, my eyes flash with wanton desire and I push myself against him harder, a near silent whine filling the air and he _knows_. "I love you," he breathes, catching my eyes as he slows his pace a moment, to a near stop, to secure my attention, "I love _you,_" and for the first time I think I'm starting to believe him. I say nothing, but push my hips up against him, bringing his face down so I can kiss those honeycomb lips again. As my determined tongue seeks out the addictive taste of his mouth, I find myself nearly crying out in bliss as he slams back into me. I knew he understood what I wanted, what I _want_, he bites down on my bottom lip gently as we move together with frantic passion. Whatever I'm chasing, I've almost caught it, my mind is a haze of pleasure and pain, the perfect balance. I can hear his voice in my ear, echoing my thoughts, and all I can do is whimper in agreement with him.  
It's so, _so_ close and I'm panting now, I know I'm whispering in his ear, but I don't know what I'm saying anymore and then finally, _finally_ I feel something shatter within me and I'm flying, dying, falling into some golden flames like the ones that had flickered off our capes when we road on the chariot together. I hear myself cry out his name once, and he, mine.  
His teeth scrape against my collarbone and he kisses my neck, my cheek and my lips once as I descend slowly from my high. For a moment I have no clue where I am or what has transpired, but I feel Peeta's weight on my body, he breath on my neck and he's panting and I cant help but feel so perfectly… satisfied? No, not satisfied, loved and fulfilled and as though everything is right, everything will be fine.

"Peeta," I murmur, running my hand through his hair, pushing it off his face. I don't know what I was going to say; I forget everything when I see the look in his eyes, the expression on his face.  
"I love you," he says again and then his body is no longer touching me, I feel nearly empty as I move over slightly so he can lay down beside me, "Katniss…" his voice is soft, nurturing, "do you believe me now?" it almost seems like he is begging for me to believe him. To trust in him and let myself go, let him in. But I can't, I know I can't. It's not that I don't believe he loves me, it's that I can't believe him. Because if he loves me like he says he does, then it's one more person I have to try and stay alive for, one more person I will end up losing, because we can't both survive, Peeta will become one more person that will take and subsequently crush the already weak fragmented remnants of my heart. The Games don't allow for feelings, for sentiments or for mercy. As much as we'd like to become allies, we both know that if we were the last two, one of us would have to die in order for the other to win. The very thought sends a shiver through my heart.  
I lean over and press a kiss to his lips, I already feel the harshness rising in me again, and the cold indifference that permeated me from the moment my father was killed is sliding through my veins again. The warmth I allowed myself to feel is slowly draining away; I know I shouldn't have let myself become to attached to him. Because tomorrow we will most likely be dead, or one of us, but I am not ashamed of allowing myself this one night of experience, of feeling loved and allowing myself to feel the heat that years of hunger had extinguished once again fan to life.  
I am _not_ ashamed.  
"No, Peeta," I whisper, pulling myself away, and it's one of the hardest thing I've had to do since I arrived in the Capitol, "I don't." Within a moment my robe is around my body, sealing my body away from him for the first and last time.  
"Katniss, please," he says as he gets to his feet, completely unperturbed by his nakedness. He walks towards me and I can already feel that little piece of my heart that had been reserved for him break, I knew it would. _Fight it Katniss,_ I repeat, steeling myself as I put up a hand to stop him from coming any closer.  
"No, Peeta," I say firmly, hoping the trademark bite in my voice disguises the way that my chin is quivering from holding back tears, "I'll never believe that lie."  
As quickly as I can manage, I flee his room, hearing his voice call out once more in the saddest tone I've ever heard his voice approach; "I love you, Katniss."  
"I can't love you," I say back though I know he can't hear me, and even if he could, he would know that I am lying. I shut my door.  
_Why can't you love him? _A part of me asks as I slowly climb into bed, I contemplate having a shower, but I'm not ready to wash his kisses and memories from my body. _Why can't you love him, Katniss?__  
_My voice barely above a whisper replies aloud; "because he came here with me."


End file.
